


in which Logan gets yoinked through space and time

by whimsicaltwine



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Being an Idiot, Fanart, Gen, Science Fiction, Time Travel, he's just dramatic, seriously he's so precious, soft logan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24293701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicaltwine/pseuds/whimsicaltwine
Summary: Logan is having a perfectly normal summer avoiding people by staying at boarding school in 1907.  Several hundred years in the future, Roman decides that flying towards a mysterious space anomaly is a good idea, resulting in Shenanigans and several new friendships.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil & Creativity | Roman & Logic | Logan & Morality | Patton
Comments: 18
Kudos: 72





	in which Logan gets yoinked through space and time

**Author's Note:**

> I drew some art for this but I couldn't get putting in here to work so here's a link to Patton in his funky space mechanic gear: https://www.instagram.com/p/CAbFtylHxpd/?igshid=1waiwkfoj5pdj sorry I'm too lazy to make it clickable

December 2413

“You,” Virgil spits, his knuckles white where they grip the controls, “are a fucking idiot.”

With a squawk, Roman throws his hands up in the air, the picture of indignation. “Oh, really? Last time I checked, one of us was actually getting things done. _You_ were too busy worrying about _pirates_ to actually get anywhere,” he says. It’s a lot less effective than it would be if he weren’t sitting on the floor of the cockpit in an unruly sprawl of limbs after being bodily thrown from the pilot’s chair. Virgil snarls. Before he can retort, though, a grease-covered bolt lands on the floor with a clatter.

“Boys, don’t make me come up there!” Patton hollers. “And Roman, Virgil wasn’t the one that let the engines overheat last week. Glass houses.” Faced with the wrath of all five feet and two inches of righteous fury and curly hair that is Patton, Virgil can only growl in Roman’s general direction as he keeps a watchful eye on the indicators on the dashboard, which have decided reality is an illusion and measurement is a fickle way of tying to define the hopeless tangle that is the universe, flicking wildly from one marking to another like the lights at that rave he ended up at once, aka One of the Many Worst Moments in Virgil’s Life. It’s stating to look like he’s about to add another one, if he manages to survive the sheer amount of dumbass that is Roman. 

“I’m Roman,” he mocks under his breath, “and I’m going to head _towards_ the space anomaly because my twin brother got all the common sense.” (Later, after actually meeting Roman’s brother, he would come to realize the irony of that statement. For now, though, the only thing he knows about Remus is that Roman will go to great lengths to avoid talking about him.) Bracing his hands on the dashboard, Roman wrenches himself up just as the whole ship shudders, the already stressed engines struggling as Virgil yanks the controls to the side with one hand while frantically flipping switches with the other. Each one snaps into place with a little thunk. “You know, Roman,” he grinds out, because taunting him is worth tearing a precious bit of focus away from keeping things under control, “I bet the fancy academy didn’t teach you how to navigate when gravity is a fucking roulette wheel, so you can shut up about my lack of formal training if we survive this, okay?”

Once again, Roman gives an offended shriek. “That’s not what this is about! This is about the fact that we have no idea how much money we could make by mining that thing and you—“

“Virgil!” Patton shouts, scrambling up onto the deck, “Sorry, kiddo, but you’ve only got about five more minutes of flying like this left.” With that, Virgil’s brain goes from intense stress to straight-up panic, his thoughts zinging across his consciousness like bolts of lightning, sharp and bright and immeasurably fast. He can’t move fast enough, his fingers barley touching one button before he moves on to the next and then turns them all off again as they fly across this goddamn gravitational minefield. Whatever the ambiguous spot of light outside is, it doesn’t give a fuck about the laws of physics.

A loud crash sounds throughout the ship, a sound Virgil feels deep in the floor underneath him and sharp in his ears all at once. The lights flicker once, twice.

“Well that doesn’t sound good,” Roman says, just as they’re plunged into darkness.

xxxxxx

August 1907

If Logan didn’t know better, he’d say there is nothing more wonderful than a library. But as it stands, he does know better, and thus amends his statement: the only thing better than a library is a library with unguarded windows and a clear view of the sky.

After sending quick glances in each direction the same way a squirrel checks its surroundings before darting out of hiding, Logan shifts his bag, which is heavy with books, and carefully slots his fingers into place on the inside edge of the windowsill in the little crevice that separates the window from the building. With a soft click, the window unlatches. Logan is free to push it open and climb out onto the roof, the cool night air welcoming him as he steps out onto the old shingles. 

He doesn’t waste any time stepping to the side, where he can leave this little outcropping and ascend to the roof proper, a journey as familiar as the mindless motions of tying his shoes each morning. 

There’s a gentle breeze this evening. As he walks up to the roof’s peak, it ruffles his hair, flicks it around the same way it might a bird’s feathers, each messy little lock of fluff shivering as if in anticipation of what’s to come. Swinging his bag off of his shoulders, Logan lets it fall and then collapses himself, all lax and boneless, lowering himself to the surface of the roof in a careless sprawl of long legs and rumpled shirt and tousled hair so that when he looks up, he’s sinking into the embrace of the specked sky.

A soft smile spreads across his face, slow and smooth like spreading butter. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out. Crickets’ chirps flavor the air.

With a sigh, Logan scans the sky, easily picking out Libra, Circinus, Ursa Minor, his eyes pausing on each one, lingering there for a moment with the same reverent respect married couples look at each other with, a silent moment of acknowledgement. When he blinks, it’s long and slow. His eyelashes brush against his cheeks like the lightest touch of a paintbrush, and then when he opens them it’s to the same beautiful, impossible, profound expanse of space hanging above the world like a veil speckled with little bits of glitter that wink at him, a gentle, silver embrace. Logically, he knows that they are nothing more than swaths of fire suspended in infinite emptiness, but laying there, with his bag stuffed full of astronomy books forgotten besides him, it all seems like so, so much more. 

If only he could dance among those stars, or wrap himself up in the shining void of space like a blanket and settle down there, make it home. Oh, it’d be wondrous to scoop a star up in his hand and hold it like a little pearl, weave it in and out of his fingers, feel the cold warmth tickle his palm. No, no, he’ll be an infinitesimal speck gazing on the brilliant power of a star millions of times his size with awe, he’ll drift on his back in empty space and let the waves of time carry him through nebulae, past galaxies and around solar systems.

With an exited gasp, he bolts up, jolted from his reverie. To make a home among the stars would be to have a front-row seat for studying them, testing the composition and measuring the heat and discovering so much more than spectroscopic methods, as wonderful as they are, allow. Logan Sidereus, Nobel Prize winner, is a distant hum at the back of his mind. On the other hand, Logan Sidereus, explorer of the cosmos, seeker of truth, man of the stars, that’s a thought just as exiting as the classes with younger teachers that actually care, the ones where Logan can really dig his hands in and explore, push ideas around and see how they fit.

Within a few moments, though, his whirling mind slows down. It leaves a melancholy little expression in its place, an echo of the wonder from a moment before. It’s a nice thought, sure, one that makes him smile, one that sends a tendril of warmth to make its home in his chest, where his heart can nestle down in it, but in the end, it’s the wildest of dreams, an absolute impossibility, a hopeless denial of facts and logic and everything that keeps him here, hangs the looming reminder of the coming school year over his head. Over the summer, school is fine. Over the summer, school is wonderful, because he’s the only one there, free to spend time throwing himself into studying whatever he wants, walking along the lake, or simply sitting in the grass and admiring the architecture he passes by without a second thought during the rest of the year. In the summer, coming up to the roof is easy and virtually risk-free. In the summer, nobody is going to complain about him or make fun of him, Logan thinks, a bitterness lodging in his throat and hardening his face. 

As he lays back down, Logan sighs. If only, if only, if—

xxxxxx

The darkness is brief, unyielding, and absolute. Everything has gone dead silent, leaving nothing but a ringing in Virgil’s ears as he drifts among the profound absence that engulfs him, wide and empty, as deep and unyielding as the ocean. Even everything outside winks out like birthday candles in a swift, silent _whoosh._

And then all of the sudden, the world twists and flips around, reflecting and refracting, shattering into a million pieces at the same time that it stretches, flexing inside out and backwards; it’s like a punch to Virgil’s chest that implants a profound sense that something is changing, that something is fundamentally, structurally wrong, and his heart thuds and his eyes widen and for a moment he doesn’t exist and then something _snaps_ with the force of a heavy object hitting the ground and jolting to a stop and they all fall back onto the deck, neatly deposited back in reality like nothing has even happened. Virgil wheezes, clinging to the dashboard. 

Roman is the first to snap out of his reverie, shaky as he turns like he’s moving through water, slow and quiet. As soon as he does, he grabs Virgil’s shoulder with a grip like cold ice and wrenches him around.

Virgil blinks. “What the fuck,” he says, quite eloquently. The kid that wasn’t there a moment ago flinches.

With fluffy hair, a wrinkled button-up shirt, and thick, square glasses, he looks absolutely out of place on the textured metal floor, under the sweeping white curve of the ship and the countless straps and pockets that cling to it. He’s tall, still stuck in that awkward teenage lankiness where his limbs don’t quite fit the rest of his body, and his clothes reflect it, too, the hems of his pants rising high enough to expose his sensible argyle socks. A moment of silence settles over the ship.

“Well, I believe we’re due for some introductions,” Roman announces, throwing his arms out wide and hitting Virgil in the face as he steps forward with a grin and a bounce in his step. “I’m Roman, pilot and operations officer aboard our wonderful home and livelihood, the noble _Void._ I know, the name is Virgil’s fault. And you are?”

Taking a small, shuffling half-step away from Roman, the kid leans back as if he’s a magnet being repelled, staring at him with wide, scared eyes. “Logan,” he offers, his gaze darting around the cabin. “I’m Logan.”

Roman grins. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Logan!” completely ignoring his fear and sweeping forward to gather him up into a one-armed embrace, at which point Logan winces and sends a sideways glance to Virgil and Patton, his eyes zipping over them like a maintenance drone before finally coming up to meet Virgil’s and giving him a look that he knows far, far too well, having directed it at Patton at least twenty times in the last few days. It’s a silent, overwhelmed plea for help.

Virgil sighs. “Get _off_ of him, Roman,” he growls, stepping forward to grab him by the arm and physically yank him back across the cabin, which sends him stumbling past Virgil and into the dashboard, where he lands with a little thud and an offended squawk. Good. As he pivots, examining the kid once again, Virgil lets himself soften, his shoulders falling as he nestles his hands in his hoodie pocket. “Sorry about him, he’s just an idiot.” That seems to put Logan at ease; he lets some of the tension leak out of his body, the frantic darting around of his eyes coming to a stop. “I’m Virgil, this is Patton.” With that, the room slows to a stop, rolling out its landing gear and officially docking in a state of awkward silence and wow, there’s not even the sound of the engines to stave it off because the engines are down — thanks Roman. Virgil shuffles his feet; the kid blinks.

“If I might ask,” he says, his voice a small and curious venture in unfamiliar territory, “where, exactly, am I? I am aware that this is your home, and that it is called the _Void,_ but I would like to know where this home is located.” He adjusts his glasses. “Scarcely a moment ago, I was in rural Pennsylvania, and I am now somewhere entirely different — unless I am hallucinating, which seems probable, given that people are not known to travel instantaneously, as I have. In any case, I would appreciate it if you answer my question.”

_Rural Pennsylvania?_ Roman mouths, his dumbfounded expression rivaling the one that’s probably on Virgil’s face right now. “Okay, okay,” Virgil says as he steps forward, holding up his hand as if to placate Logan, “what do you mean by rural Pennsylvania, because, um, I don’t think that exists.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s an American state,” Patton provides. Roman gasps.

“A state? Like, not a territory, but a state-state? Holy shit.” As they chatter, an idea starts to gather in Virgil’s mind, a little wisp of a thing that slowly starts to gain mass and momentum, building itself up until he decides to release it into the room.

“Logan,” he says, the word drifting across the room under the louder conversation, “what _year_ do you live in?” 

Logan blinks, furrows his brow, taps at his thigh in rapid little motions that remind Virgil of a machine whirring to life; Virgil can almost see the thoughts churning in his head as he answers, “1907.”

“Oh,” Virgil says, because thinking something is one thing and having it shoved into your face, undeniable and concrete and _there,_ is another. Patton and Roman have stilled behind him, as if the fact has frozen them in time and left them little more than two statues, ever still, ever silent, slowed to a stop by one word from a boy who looks like he’s been cut out of one painting and stuck into another.

Logan, on the other hand, starts to move faster. He paces across the cabin in a way that would be frantic if not for the glint of interest that shines in his eyes. “Presumably, this is not 1907, in which case I would like to know what year it _is.”_ Although he seems to be handling it well, Virgil’s not about to be the guy to tell a teenager from before computers even existed just how far he’s traveled into the future, not to mention the fact that hey, you’re not even on earth anymore, how about that? 

Luckily, before silence forces Virgil’s hand, Patton speaks up, stepping up to Logan with movements like a slow-moving river as he pulls off a glove to take his hand. “Kiddo,” he says, “you’re a really long way and a really long time from home. And it might be scary—“

“Tell me where and when I am,” Logan cuts in, his voice a battering ram against Patton’s careful explanation. 

With a sigh, Patton bites his lip and says, “You’re about five hundred years away from home, kiddo.” Logan isn’t even swayed, a stone sculpture as he gives a plain nod, and so Patton tentatively continues, “And as for distance, I — Roman, can you pull up the map?”

Without power to the ship, the 3D displays are down for the count, but Roman, who Patton’s taken to affectionately calling their “map man,” has countless star charts and a map of every planet, moon, and large asteroid they’ve ever visited stored away in his data pad, which he keeps strapped to his hip. Swiftly taking it off its little holder, he flicks his fingers across the screen a few times before handing it to Patton. Virgil shuffles over and cranes his neck so he can see what Patton’s pointing at.

“This,” Patton says, his fingernail clicking against the glass, “is where we are now.” Logan nods. With that confirmation, Patton’s finger sails across the screen, taps it a few times to flip through the layers, and finally settles on a spot near the bottom right corner. “This is earth.” 

Logan blinks in shock, but in seconds he’s taken the data pad from Patton’s hands with slow reverence, like he’s handling an ancient artifact that could crumble to pieces at any moment. Silence tightens in the air as his eyes sweep over the screen slowly, like something drifting in empty space, and for a moment everything is still and quiet and slow, as if it’s underwater. It’s Logan who breaks it, handing the datapad back to Patton.

“Can you adjust it so that everything is displayed as if one were viewing it from earth?” Logan asks, the words fast, wound on the same string of excitement that shines in his eyes. Patton gives a little smile.

“Of course, kiddo.” After making a few adjustments, he hands it back to Logan, who pulls it up right in front of his eyes, moving so fast Virgil’s afraid he’s going to hit himself in the head, and gets right to work tapping away at the screen despite the fact that he’s never seen anything like this technology before. 

Virgil listens to him mumble as he looks at it. Maybe he’s in shock, or this has just made him straight up go crazy, and they’re going to have to deal with a clueless teenager who’s lost his mind because of being thrown five hundred years and eighteen lightyears from home. God, Virgil is so going to punch Roman as soon as possible. 

With a sigh, Patton stretches, arching his back and spreading his hands above him before settling back down onto solid ground, where he tugs his grease-stained gloves back onto his hands. “I’m gonna go work on getting things up and running,” he says, stepping onto the ladder and throwing a glance down into the messy, mechanical parts of the ship, a tangled mess of machinery and hydraulics, before grabbing the side rails and sliding his way down, leaving them alone with Logan. Silence hangs in the air between them.

“So, Logan,” Virgil says with an awkward chuckle and a subsequent wince, because he sounds like an idiot, “any questions?” With that, Logan’s head snaps up and his pacing comes to a sudden halt, as if the word “questions” has flipped a switch that diverts all attention away from the world around him and funnels it onto wherever the sound came from. Roman snorts, and Virgil can see why. Logan looks like a goldfish or something, staring at them with that wide-eyed, exited gaze.

“As a matter of fact,” Logan says, “I do,” before hugging the data pad close to his chest as if it’s his favorite book and unleashing the single longest, fastest string of dialogue that Virgil has ever heard. “Exactly how far from earth are we? Are there other habitable planets? How do you create artificial gravity in your vehicle? Is space travel widespread, or a new development? And exactly what year did we first figure out how to leave earth’s atmosphere and—“

“Would you like a tour of the ship?” Roman says, loudly. Bewildered, Logan nods. “Alright!” Roman says, clapping his hands together as he takes a big, swinging step out towards the middle of the room, “let’s get started. The ship has wings to either side, each with their own pair of small thrusters, though the main engine is right here, and there are three levels. This one is where we spend our time, for the most part. Right up front, you’ll find the controls, while tables and chairs are back where you, um, spontaneously appeared. Got that?” The words have no time to hang in the air before Logan gives a strong nod, a fire in his eyes and a little smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Roman grins.

“Down that ladder there’s the cargo bay, which is mostly just a room full of rocks, water tanks, things like that — it’s pretty boring. And up the ladder is where we sleep,” he says, stepping up onto the first rung with one foot and taking hold higher up before leaning back to look at Logan. “You’re in luck; this ship is meant to operate on a four-person crew, so you’ve got a place to sleep.” Worming his way through Roman’s limbs, Logan suddenly pops up in between his body and the ladder, where he promptly reaches up and seizes a rung like it’s the beginning of a heroic journey, his fingers wrapping around the silver metal with determination. “Woah there!” Roman says, just as Virgil walks over to bodily pull one of them off, but Logan pays him no attention; he’s on a quest, and he’s damn well going to finish it. 

“Logan,” Virgil gets out, his voice shrill and crackly like a bad radio signal, “what are you doing?”

Logan’s head swivels back towards them. “Climbing the ladder in order to observe the space above. Was that not apparent?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Virgil stammers, his voice low and grinding, a perfect match from the tired tones he speaks in early in the mornings, when the ship’s lights are still dim and the fog of sleep still lingers in the corners of the room. “Well don’t — nobody — just wait for Roman to get off the damn ladder first, okay?” Roman obliges, gracefully stepping down. “And you, maybe do some actual work for once. Go see if Patton needs help.” With a sigh, Virgil drags himself over to the ladder, where Logan’s foot is already disappearing from the rungs above him, and starts his own climb, the metal cold against his fingers.

Poking his head into the room, Virgil looks around to see Logan already digging around in Roman’s things, a couple notebooks stacked besides him as he rummages through one of the bins under Roman’s bed, eventually pulling out the grand testament of failure and frustration that is his rubix cube, which he turns over in his hands a few times, brushing his fingers over the smooth surface, before setting it aside with the notebooks. As he pulls himself up to perch on the floor with his legs hanging down in the room below, Virgil smirks. Roman’s going to be outraged. “That bed’s Roman’s,” he lets Logan know. “Mine is across from his, and the one covered in stuffed animals is Patton’s.”

“So the remaining bed is the one intended for me.” Wrinkling his nose as he pulls a crumpled up shirt out of the bin, Logan continues, “If I might ask, what do you think is the likelihood that I will be able to return home? You’ve quickly put thought into a sleeping arrangement for me, so presumably, you expect I will be here for some time.” 

And what is Virgil supposed to say to that? Oh yeah, hey Logan, people have been experimenting with black holes and stuff for the last century but we can’t get together anything that’s safe or has any kind of consistency and it’s basically guaranteed you’ll be here for the rest of your life. Yeah, no. Across the room, Logan is staring at him, waiting for an answer, so in true Virgil fashion, he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, leaving the problem for later. God, it’s probably still going to have to be him to do it, too, because Patton would lie to try to make him feel better and Roman is, well, Roman. 

Logan frowns, dissatisfied. “Very well,” he says, immediately going back to his journey through all of Roman’s possessions.

The room, usually full of bright, clear light at this time of day, is awash in the dim tones of dusk, thanks to the fact that they’re running on secondary power. Soft blue bands seep from the lights that wrap around the walls, the color spreading over them like waves washing over smooth, white sand, and the shadows that stretch from each shelf and hook make the room seem surreal, working together with the blue light and the quiet to make it seem like they’re underwater. Virgil swings his legs up and over onto the floor, where he lays down on his back, weaving his hands together behind his head to keep it off the cold, hard metal ground. “So, Logan,” he starts, the words sitting comfortably in the serene room, “what’s home like?”

“A fascinating place filled with dull people.” Virgil smiles. Yeah, he likes the kid. Sue him. “I attend a boarding school during the fall, winter, and spring, and elect to remain there over the summer, as well, rather than going home to the city, as I find the solitude and access to learning material agreeable. During the school year, I take advanced classes. Before I was, um, spontaneously transported here, I was stargazing on the roof of the school’s library.” He stops, then, his hand freezing over the bin, as if he’s a robot that’s just shut off. When he starts up again, it’s a bit quieter. “I suppose that is fitting, considering I have found myself among the stars.” 

Virgil hums. “High school?”

“Yes.”

Tracing the edges of the ceiling above him with his eyes, Virgil tilts his head, kicking around in his brain in an attempt to get a handle on what he wants to say. “High school sucked,” he settles on. “I’m not that smart, and nobody liked me. Even the ones that didn’t not like me, they weren’t my friends, you know? Just kinda there.” Logan nods as he shoves the first bin back under Roman’s bed and goes for the second, fumbling with the latch mechanism for a second before getting it open.

“I have similar experiences. While being on the campus during the summer months is quite enjoyable, the school year is another matter, largely due to a lack of proper supervision and the fact that other students are predisposed to disliking me. I’ve been forcibly confined to small spaces a small number of times over the years, which I find is counterproductive to my learning experience. In addition—“ he yanks a third bin out with way more force than is necessary, using a sharp, jolting movement, but then suddenly freezes, the building anger running off of him like water. “I apologize,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “I seem to have forgotten myself.”

That doesn’t sound good. Twisting to prop himself up on one elbow, Virgil shuffles around until he’s sitting, facing Logan, and reaches out as if to rest a hand on his shoulder, his fingers hanging in the air like a falling leaf caught in a moment of rest, but at the last second, he draws back, opting to awkwardly put it in his lap, instead. Logan turns his attention back to Roman’s stuff. As he picks up the rubix cube again, tracing the corners with the tip of his finger, Virgil worries at the hem of his hoodie, sweeping his fingers along the little ridges in the fabric as he gives a little huff. “Hey,” he says, flicking his eyes down and away, dodging Logan’s wide-eyed, attentive gaze, “it’s okay. I’m in a pretty good mindset for listening right now, anyway, and — just — it’s not any trouble, ok? Patton and I have both been working on not thinking like that, so I mean, we get it.”

Logan nods. “I’ll be sure to remember that,” he says, his body and voice tightening until they seem to waver just a bit, out of place and awkward. Virgil gets it; emotional talks suck. 

Before they can stew in awkwardness for too long, though, something slams on the floor behind Virgil with a loud metallic _clank,_ sending every once of Virgil’s awareness jolting out of his body to hover in the air above his tense shoulders for a moment before crashing back down as he whips around to see Roman’s head pop up from the ladder. Logan startles, too, although he does a much better job of hiding it.

“Okay,” Roman huffs, dragging himself onto the floor, dramatic as ever, “I’ve got good news and bad news — are you letting him go through my stuff?” The shriek rings around the room like the screech of a bad landing on a metal surface, sending the rubix cube tumbling out of Logan’s hands as he yanks them up to cover his ears. Virgil, used to Roman’s dramatics, only raises an eyebrow, offering him a look filled with the dares and taunts and insults all rolled up in one like a Roman-antagonizing sushi.

“That a problem?” he drawls, tapping his fingernails against the floor in a staccato rhythm. Roman huffs. 

Roman’s eyes sweep from his things to Virgil and Logan and back again, and Virgil catches the exact moment the fight in them dissolves, worn down by Logan’s adorable, innocent expression as he gives a little gasp, his face drawn up in concentration as he figures out the rubix cube can be shuffled and turned. “It’s fine,” he grinds out. Virgil takes in the moment and pockets it for later.

“What I was _trying_ to say is that Patton, our wonderful, brilliant little puffball, has worked his magic on the engine, granting us mobility once again! However, he can only do so much, and so we’ll be cutting it close on our journey to the nearest stop.” Virgil tightens his grip on the hem of his hoodie. At least they’re not stranded in space. Yet.

Setting down the rubix cube, which Virgil notices is almost half-solved, Logan adjusts his glasses as he looks up at them. “Should I be worried?”

“No!” Roman booms, at the exact same time as Virgil says, “Probably.” They look at each other for a moment, animosity crackling in the air between them, before breaking away and turning to Logan. “We’re going to do our absolute best to make sure everything goes well,” Roman says, his voice uncharacteristically soft, like the downy lower layer of an animal’s fur, or a shaft of morning sunlight curling around you and nudging warmth into your skin. “In the meantime, you have free reign of the ship.” Clambering to his knees so that he can give a little bow, Roman gives a soft smile. “Consider me at your service, young sir.” 

Logan blinks. “I’m almost seventeen,” he states, and Virgil snorts.

“Watch out, Princey,” he says, “he’s a witty one.” God, he’s _tiny_ though, and as vividly as Virgil remembers being a teenager growling at the world for not giving him the respect and authority he wanted, he can’t help but think that pointing out he’s not a kid just makes him seem more childish.

With that, Patton climbs up, a red outline of the edges of his goggles tracing curved lines around his eyes and over the bridge of his nose as he steps off onto the floor, his grease-stained fingers already working at the clasp of his toolbelt, which he unslings from around his waist and hangs on a hook with broad, slow moments, as if someone’s tied weights to his arms and legs. After scrambling to buy Virgil time and then getting right back to work convincing the ship’s engines to make it through just a little more, he’s exhausted, and it shows in the way he collapses onto his bed without even bothering to take off his arm braces or his oil-stained clothes, falling back in a limp pile of metal, sweat, and mechanical grease. Roman is up off his feet in moments. Patton never risks getting his cozy bed dirty, especially with all the stuffed animals.

“Let me help you there, Pattoncake,” he says, getting down on one knee besides Patton’s bed so he can get started on the first of the sturdy, tight straps that line his arms, tugging his thick sleeves close to him so that they bunch up in between each strap. 

“Thanks, kiddo,” Patton sighs. A few footsteps sound from behind Virgil, and when he looks over his shoulder Logan is there.

“What is the purpose of the… apparatus you are wearing?” he says, throwing the words out in a rush, eager to get his answer as soon as possible. Despite his exhaustion, Patton finds the energy to grin at him, though soft and a little weary, not quite the chipper flash of light that they’re used to, and sits up a little as Roman moves to his other arm.

“That’s a good question,” he says. “It really just helps me lift things, or get something out if it’s stuck. It uses a combination of motors and air pressure to basically give me a power boost whenever I need it to. A lot of the time I keep it off, so it’s just like really weird sleeves, but I use the controls in my glove to turn them back on whenever I want.” Shrugging off the backpack straps of the power source and shoulder motors, he lets Roman hang it back up at the end of his bed. Logan’s eyes follow it the whole way.

“Fascinating,” he muses, but it’s hardly a second before he’s back at it with another question. “I have also noticed that you seem to be wearing quite a few layers. Is that due to the dangers of the work you do, which I imagine include handling objects at high temperatures as well as moving parts that have the potential to be dangerous?”

Patton chuckles this time, his grin picking up some of his lost energy as if he’s siphoning off Logan’s enthusiasm and his eyes glittering as he takes in the way Logan leans forward like an eager puppy, lapping up each new bit of information with vibrant enthusiasm and never failing to come back for more. He’s taken with the kid, too, Virgil can tell. “That’s right, kiddo. Everything I wear is insulated and fire resistant, and things like my overalls and gloves are even a little bit like armor, in case I get my hand caught, or something breaks and flies out at me. And then the shirt under this one isn’t built for that kind of thing, but it’s waterproof. I get pretty hot sometimes, but it’s worth it to stay safe — thank you, Roman,” he says, accepting a glass of water from him with a grateful nod.

Roman, surprisingly on top of things for once, tosses a spare pillow onto the extra bed, which Virgil’s mind has already labeled as Logan’s. “This one’s yours, specs. I think we’ve all had more than enough adventures for the day, and every good hero needs a good nap — especially you, Patton.” Pulling clean pajamas out of Patton’s drawers, he sets them down besides him on the bed, ruffling his hair as he passes. 

“You heard him,” Virgil says, reaching his hands high above his head as he yawns, weaving his fingers together and listening to his shoulders pop and crackle, “let’s go to sleep.” With that, he tugs his hoodie over his head, tosses it onto his bed, and then climbs up into it himself, the day’s anxiety already starting to weigh on him. Across the room, Logan is getting ready to go to sleep, too, slipping into an oversized t-shirt provided by Roman. 

“Goodnight, everybody,” Patton mumbles, and with that, Virgil closes his eyes and pulls his blankets over his head.

xxxxxx

When Virgil wakes to total darkness, he has a moment of panic, because this isn’t normal. His drowsy sleep-thoughts rocket out of their cozy nest and take a detour through _oh my god am I dead no I’m alive HAVE I GONE BLIND_ before hitting the realization that the lights are completely off to save power and falling to the ground with a dull thunk, its frantic energy expended. Feeling around for the edge of his bed, he rolls his eyes. Nothing like an anxiety-induced overreaction to start the morning, works better than coffee! He shifts his hands along the rumpled sheets. Blanket, blanket, blanket, dirty sock (he should really do laundry), blanket — there, datapad. Turning it on, he lets the purple glow of his home screen wash over the bed, illuminating the blankets pooled over his legs, and sweeps the light over to start looking for his shoes, which are haphazardly laying on the floor where he kicked them off yesterday. A brief careful shuffle across the room later, he flicks on the light switch, filling the room with the same dim blue glow from before. There’s Roman, all sprawled across his bed with the grace of a damp towel, one hand hanging off the edge and into the carnage of Logan’s exploration, and there’s Patton across the room, curled up in a cozy little nest of stuffed animals that threatens to swallow him up completely. Finally, there’s Logan, a vague figure wrapped up in the plain gray sheets on the extra bed. 

Virgil turns to Roman, smirking. He sets his datapad on a shelf, reaches out to take the thick fabric of Roman’s quilt in a firm grip, bunching it up in his hands, and then, with one big tug, pulls it clear off the bed and into the air, dragging Roman towards the cold abyss of the outside air before yanking it completely free of him with a flourish, sending him tumbling down onto the ground with a heavy thud and the clatter of his scattered belongings. With an animalistic cry, Roman scrambles up onto his hands and knees before screeching to a halt. Slowly, slowly, he turns his head to level a glare at Virgil, who snickers.

“You — oh my god!” Roman thunders as he makes a wild lunge for Virgil, who hops out of the way and runs across the room with a delighted cackle. “You scoundrel!”

Before Virgil can retort, though, Patton gives a little whine, shoving his face into a big plush lion. “No yelling before 8:00,” he mumbles, “It’s early and you’ll wake Logan.” 

“It might be a little too late for that,” Roman says, dragging Virgil’s gaze over to the fourth bed, where an undefinable blob of sheets that must be Logan has started shifting, filling the air with the whisper of fabric rubbing against itself, and as Virgil watches, a head pokes out of the bundle. Logan squints as he shakes his head free of the blankets, his hair thrown every which way in an amorphous blob of little tufts that cross over each other and fall into his eyes, which are dull and bleary with sleep. He looks like a tiny, unruly little baby bird.

“Whazza problem,” he mumbles, pulling Patton from his cocoon of warmth and up into the waking world, where he pulls his blankets up around his shoulders like a heavy cloak that flows off of his body and onto the bed.

“Nothing, kiddo,” he says. “Just Virgil and Roman being a little rowdy. What would you like for breakfast?” I’m pretty sure we have bagels.”

“Bagels are adequate,” Logan says, untangling himself from his blankets. “Personally, I am partial to blueberry, although I have no aversion to other varieties.” Virgil flicks his eyes up to meet Roman’s across the room, tossing across a tiny little amused look, because the way Logan talks makes it seem like bagels are some kind of animal with different breeds, like dogs. Roman gives a silent little laugh.

“No need to worry,” he says, sweeping forward to take Logan’s hands and gently tug him out of bed with the smooth, fluid movements of a dancer, his head held high and a shining smile on his face, “we have blueberry. Now, do you want to dress in your clothes from yesterday or borrow some again?” As soon as he’s out from under the warm covers, Logan curls in on himself, his arms and shoulders retreating to the warmth of his shoulders and a hiss like slowly venting steam seeping from between his teeth.

“I would prefer to borrow clothes, as I have not yet had an opportunity to wash my own.”

“You got it, Specs,” Roman says, twirling over to his own dresser. After rummaging around for a moment, he grabs a handful of fabric and tosses it to Logan, who makes a kind of panicked half-movement that’s probably an attempt to catch it just a second before the wad of clothing hits him in the face, knocking his glasses askew. There is silence.

“Sorry,” Roman says. Logan shrugs. Giving Patton a little nod, Virgil steps over to the ladder and slides down, his socked feet landing on the floor below with a soft, thunk. Getting dressed is overrated, especially since he’s the pilot, and most of the time there isn’t really a need for him to get dressed. He can do his job right from the comfort of his swivel chair.

He digs around in the storage containers on the wall until he finds a package of bagels, smacks the button to start the coffeemaker, and shoves a bunch of bagels into the tiny little oven to toast.

Before long, Roman and Patton join him, Patton sliding right into the space next to Virgil, where he starts spreading butter on his bagel, and Roman unfolding his arms, stretching, as he walks. “Kid’s getting dressed,” Roman says, and then, after a pause, continues, “I like him.”

“Did you see how precious he looked sleeping?” coos Patton, bouncing on his toes just slightly. “And that adorable bedhead?” Virgil settles for a shrug, because it’s not like he can disagree; Logan is kind of adorable. He wonders if that’s what people thought of him when he was a teenager, back when he tried too hard to be intimidating. 

Just as the toaster dings for the last time that morning, the sound of Logan climbing down the ladder reaches Virgil’s ears, but when he looks up, Logan is hanging with his foot on the last rung, perfectly still, caught between one moment and the next; the reflection of the blue low power lights cuts across his glasses, and his gaze is directed towards the front window, the one Virgil is so used to seeing the universe through. Logan, though, isn’t, and all three of them fall into a reverent sort of silence as they watch Logan slowly shift, set one foot on the floor, and walk towards the front of the ship like he’s in a trance, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist and there is only him and the star-scattered field of space. He walks, one step in front of the other, delicately climbs on top of a group of indicators on the control panel, and lays his hand on the glass.

The three of them give each other a look.

It’s Roman that finally dares to move, and once he’s halfway across the room Patton and Virgil follow until they are all gathered around Logan. He’s looking outside with a reverent sort of wonder, the kind that makes the world slow down around you, and his awestruck expression is reflected ever so slightly in the glass. For a while none of them speak, only stand there and watch Logan.

“I-I, it’s—“ Logan stammers, and when he turns back towards them, it’s only for a second, but his eyes are just as starry as the view outside. “It’s _indescribable,”_ he settles on as he turns back. Patton climbs on top of the control panel himself to sit next to him, and Roman rests a hand on Logan’s shoulder, dipping into a soft storyteller’s voice as he guides Logan through the landmarks of local space. Filled with the sudden urge to take a picture so that he can save this moment, Virgil leans on the console instead as somewhere, in the back of his mind, a new name appears on a list of people to protect.


End file.
